


give me a thousand kisses and a hundred more

by harborshore



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Lingerie, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 00:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19860718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/pseuds/harborshore
Summary: Crowley tries to get the upper hand, fails, and enjoys himself very much in the process. Title by Catullus.





	give me a thousand kisses and a hundred more

**Author's Note:**

> From the kink meme, prompt:
> 
> I am an anon of simple needs: Crowley decides to do the cheesy 'surprise your lover with some sexy lacy lingerie' thing and, like much of his usual tempting, it backfires when it turns out Aziraphale is so delighted that he wants to take it tortuously slow and. Well. Patience is a virtue and demons are well-known to be lacking in that department.

Crowley snaps his fingers, moving the mirror from mid-air back to the wall. He’s reasonably pleased with this, the black (obviously) lace soft and not scratchy at all against his skin, the stays that sort of invisibly seamless comfort that signifies the actually well made and expensive corsets rather than the knock-off Primark ones or that ghastly American brand that passed for sexy for a few years in the beginning of the nineties. He’d gone to the trouble of having an actual human sew this for him, and had gone in expecting to need to be Convincing in a slightly demonic way but luckily for him, the lady in question was very understanding and his was not the first request straying outside the boundaries of prim and proper temptation. 

Not that surprising, on the whole, but still. It had been rather nice, the process. Much better than he’d have been able to demonically miracle up for himself. And Aziraphale will appreciate the effort involved more this way, too. 

Shrugging, his usual get-up goes on on top of the lace. He’s due at Aziraphale’s - oh, was due. He’s late.

Aziraphale says as much when he comes in, squirming a little because, well, as it turns out jeans on top of thin lace isn’t entirely comfortable, and somehow Crowley is loath to take the feeling away. It seems to be part of it.

“You’re late,” with that smile. Crowley would never admit it out loud, but his knees always go a little weak there. 

“Only by twenty minutes,” he says. “Once, you missed a rendezvous by three years, angel, I believe that counts as more late.” 

“It’s not my fault there was a staff meeting that ran over,” Aziraphale says, stretching out a hand. He’s in his most comfortable armchair, and has put the book down. Well then. Crowley resists the urge to squirm again and saunters over, straddling his angel. 

“Hello,” Aziraphale says softly, and Crowley dips his head for the kiss, closing his eyes. It feels like the inverse of Falling, being kissed by Aziraphale, a benediction and a glorious heavenly choir all at once. Which sounds ridiculous but is both true and, well. Rather nice.

He grins against Aziraphale’s lips when he feels his hands stop on his waist, feeling out the stays. 

“What is this?”

“Mmm, angel, don’t you know about gifts? You’re meant to unwrap them.” He lets himself sway a little closer to the angel and is rewarded by hands slipping under the hem of his t-shirt and a breathless “oh.” 

“There’s lace,” Crowley murmurs, low, slipping a little on the sibilants. 

“I can tell,” Aziraphale says, fingers leisurely feeling along the back of the corset. “This is—who made this?”

“A very lovely woman,” Crowley says. He does want to tel Aziraphale about her; he does so love stories about humanity when they’re not at their worst, but he rather thinks they have something else they ought to be doing. “Don’t you want to look?”

“All in good time,” Aziraphale says. Crowley bites his lip for that, but Aziraphale only smiles again.

“My dear,” he says, “isn’t this nice? We can take our time.” 

Crowley breathes in at the scrape of a nail over bare skin. “You were wasted in Heaven,” he breathes out. “You, oh. Fiend.”

Aziraphale hums and does draw his hands up then, pulling the t-shirt up over Crowley’s head. “Oh, my dear,” he says, and then nothing else. 

Crowley shifts. He doesn’t love feeling uncertain like this, but there’s something heady about having Aziraphale look at him and only him. 

“Well?” He demands.

“You look exquisite,” Aziraphale says, fingers curving lightly around Crowley’s waist. “Simply exquisite.” His grip feels—Crowley tries to draw an entirely unnecessary breath and fails. 

“Kiss me again,” Aziraphale says. Crowley obeys, because that yearning in that voice - if Hell could bottle that, they’d never want for souls lost to temptation again. Aziraphale’s mouth is soft and warm and everything Crowley has ever wanted, and the way his hands are just slipping lightly upward is, well. Words are inadequate. 

Aziraphale wouldn’t agree, but Crowley isn’t the one who collected love poetry through the ages along with his prophecies, nor is he the one who spent a month arguing with Catullus about the perfect stanza. No matter; neither of them need words for this.

Except maybe he does, because Aziraphale seems content to just sit there, and kiss him, and, and touch him in the most teasing of ways. 

“Angel,” he says, breaking the kiss, a little short of the breath he technically doesn’t need and that the corset absolutely isn’t restraining in any way because it wasn’t made that way, “don’t you want to take this business to bed?” He makes a meaningful gesture at himself, corset and skinny jeans and all.

Aziraphale grins, just a little impish. “Dearest,” he says, “I don’t know, I find myself enjoying this very much. Just this.” He runs his hands up Crowley’s spine and Crowley finds himself wanting to curl into it in a way that isn’t technically possible in this particular body. 

“You’re going to drive me mad,” Crowley says, but he doesn’t insist, he can’t actually deny Aziraphale anything when he looks like this. He does say, “I feel a bit like a plate of Jiro’s sashimi,” because he is what he is. 

Aziraphale laughs. “Oh, my darling, you’re a lot more special than that. And this lace, too, it must’ve cost a fortune.”

It had, rather, and Crowley paid in real money. But he didn’t mind then and he definitely doesn’t mind now.

One of Aziraphale’s hands traces along his collarbone, and then down to skate the edge of the corset. Crowley doesn’t whine, but he really, really wants to.

“Fiend,” he says again. 

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale retorts. “I like to enjoy my gifts, you know that.”

Crowley does. “I didn’t think you’d treat me like the wrapping paper,” he says.

“This is far better than Christmas morning,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley, though he’s beginning to become more than a little uncomfortable, would agree with that. He finds Christmas an insipid holiday and has only joined the angel a handful of times to celebrate it. 

“Celebrate away, then,” he says, and is rewarded with a delighted laugh and more adventurous hands, sliding over every flower on the lace, all the way until he’s reached Crowley’s waist, tugging at the button of his jeans. 

“Okay, but now—“ Crowley says, and snaps his fingers, landing them on the bed, himself still straddling Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale smirks up at him, an expression Crowley’s pretty sure the angel picked up from him, and without even a gesture, their positions are reversed, Aziraphale leaning over him and Crowley on his back on the bed.

“Fine,” he says. “Now you have me where you want me, what are you going to do?”

Aziraphale hums, and Crowley’s jeans vanish off of him to reappear folded on the chair next to the bed.

“I’m going to look,” he says, “and touch,” finger skimming over the most expensive stockings Crowley had found that fit him, “and you’re going to let me, aren’t you?”


End file.
